I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
On an early September day the Yahoo weather report says that the temperature is supposed to be 75 degrees farenheit. The sun shines in all of its glory on their site. The grey drizzle that floats down on me as I make my mid/late-morning trip to Stumptown would say otherwise. It's currently holding at 60 degrees with a projected low of 58 degrees. The day, and my personal feelings about the day, take a turn for the worst as I elect to take my triple iced Americano hot. Not only is this a truly uncivilized way to transition from late morning to early afternoon, but its implications weigh heavily on my psyche as I realize that a summer of laze and leisure might be at an end.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
Monday, August 27, 2007
bad vibes
Early on, I knew it was going to be a weird day. I sat in front of Stumptown on a cold, windblown morning that felt more like early November than late August, steeling myself for a hard day of delivering stuff by bike. It was early still, when I took the first sip of the essential triple-iced americano. Even though the air was crisp and the sky was overcast, I ordered my caffeine on the rocks, anticipating the arrival of the summer sun. It was an uneasy wait, made harder to bear by grey-skinned street urchins milling about.
The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.
The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
It was during the downtime between my calisthenics regimen and the mid-morning shower when the phone rang. It was approaching 10am, and NPR was taking its toll on my fragile psyche. Even though the outside world was doing quite poorly, I picked up the phone and looked at the incoming number. How was I to know that a simple phone call would turn into a full blown attack on my dedication to leisure.
The number didn't look like that of the collections agents or their machines that frequently hound me. It was just a 503 number. A friend? Not likely. My old friends are most likely at work at that time. My new friends, those who have chosen to ride out the summer months on the dole as I have, are just waking up. Still others, like myself, are locked in a desperate battle against the clock. Iced Americanos don't make themselves, and the woman that gets her double iced latte (with soy, please) at about, oh, say 11:13am? She doesn't know that I exist, so the onus of our relationship has fallen upon my shoulders.
She'll come around, just you....wait. What the fuck was I talking about? The phone call. Thank God I'd just finished my morning work-out and gotten the blood back into my brain again. I answered the phone.
"Hey, this is so-and-so from unemployment something-or-other and we've found a position that we think you're qualified to fill."
There must be some mistake. My work experience has been painstakingly tooled to repel potential employers like a healthy shot of bear mace straight to the mug. How could this be happening?
This is one of the unpleasant aspect of being unemployed. At a certain point you stop worrying, learn how to live within your meager means and begin to enjoy your free time. So when someone calls you and informs you that they've done you a favor by finding some kind of gainful employment, you may not be as enthusiastic as the squares would like. But you've got to play ball with these employment accountants or facilitators or whatever they say they are when you're trying to not listen.
So, the guy says some more specific ramblings about the requirements and qualifications of the position that at least one of us is interested in. At this point, I'm fully puckered, with "yes" and "you bet" and "that sounds great," flying out of my mouth like I mean them. The feeling was not unlike that which one gets when tucking a golf shirt into a pair of Dockers.
So when it came time to tell me what my future employment could possibly be, things got a little strange. "Well, it says editor-T.O.C.," the guy said.
"Uh, what's that," I replied, adding that I'd had editorial experience and I'd never heard of that job title.
"Let's see," now we were on common ground, "editor, table of contents."
Was this some kind of joke? It wasn't, and, well, how hard could that be?
Things were looking up, I thought. Maybe it was time to re-enter the workforce?
It was then that things took a turn for the worst.
"It's in Lake Oswego, is that a problem?"
Before I knew how to react I heard a cheesy and insincerely enthusiastic voice say, "Not a problem."
The number didn't look like that of the collections agents or their machines that frequently hound me. It was just a 503 number. A friend? Not likely. My old friends are most likely at work at that time. My new friends, those who have chosen to ride out the summer months on the dole as I have, are just waking up. Still others, like myself, are locked in a desperate battle against the clock. Iced Americanos don't make themselves, and the woman that gets her double iced latte (with soy, please) at about, oh, say 11:13am? She doesn't know that I exist, so the onus of our relationship has fallen upon my shoulders.
She'll come around, just you....wait. What the fuck was I talking about? The phone call. Thank God I'd just finished my morning work-out and gotten the blood back into my brain again. I answered the phone.
"Hey, this is so-and-so from unemployment something-or-other and we've found a position that we think you're qualified to fill."
There must be some mistake. My work experience has been painstakingly tooled to repel potential employers like a healthy shot of bear mace straight to the mug. How could this be happening?
This is one of the unpleasant aspect of being unemployed. At a certain point you stop worrying, learn how to live within your meager means and begin to enjoy your free time. So when someone calls you and informs you that they've done you a favor by finding some kind of gainful employment, you may not be as enthusiastic as the squares would like. But you've got to play ball with these employment accountants or facilitators or whatever they say they are when you're trying to not listen.
So, the guy says some more specific ramblings about the requirements and qualifications of the position that at least one of us is interested in. At this point, I'm fully puckered, with "yes" and "you bet" and "that sounds great," flying out of my mouth like I mean them. The feeling was not unlike that which one gets when tucking a golf shirt into a pair of Dockers.
So when it came time to tell me what my future employment could possibly be, things got a little strange. "Well, it says editor-T.O.C.," the guy said.
"Uh, what's that," I replied, adding that I'd had editorial experience and I'd never heard of that job title.
"Let's see," now we were on common ground, "editor, table of contents."
Was this some kind of joke? It wasn't, and, well, how hard could that be?
Things were looking up, I thought. Maybe it was time to re-enter the workforce?
It was then that things took a turn for the worst.
"It's in Lake Oswego, is that a problem?"
Before I knew how to react I heard a cheesy and insincerely enthusiastic voice say, "Not a problem."
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Time Management The Jefe Way
My long-time friend and mentor Matt Hogan once told me, "You know, Jefe, the hard thing about doing nothing is that you never know when you're done."
You see, Hogan was a musician, and even in the depressed live-music industry of rural Northern California, it was his sole source of income, save the annual prune harvest. Hogan always had a surplus of leisure time.
I never understood his words--until now. I didn't even take him seriously, as I never expected to be in a position to benefit from his sage advice.
I also think of Chuck Bukowski saying "the days run away like wild horses over the hills."
And so they do.
You see, I'm currently unemployed. My skills include nine years as a bike messenger with some "editorial" skills from long ago as a hazy afterthought. The Clift Notes version: virtually unemployable. And so, with a Hogan-esque amount of free time, minimal time-management abilities, an over-active imagination and serious lack of focus, not to mention a stunted maturity level, I found myself mired in an state of nervous lethargy.
Just as the sun rose to exciting and lofty goals and the best of intentions, it would set to loose ends, wasted time and predictable disappointment. Like the Tell-tale Heart, Hogan's words beat like a drum, unrelenting and clear in my mind. The day doesn't last forever, I told myself, and my days as a man of leisure would not last forever, either. If I couldn't find a way to effectively structure my time, how close was I to spending my days with Regis & Kelly, Montel and Springer?
In order to cope with such a dire predicament I've developed a routine. The beauty of a routine is that it forces you to make a kind of non-binding schedule--and keep it. Now, it may sound like an intimidating task, but look at a routine for what it really is--a kind of structured rut.
My routine helps to keep things like looking for work or calling the weekly claims office from getting lost in the shuffle, safely tucked away in an implied to-do list.
My routine goes a little something like this:
First, I get out of bed. Once I've turned on NPR, I settle in for an intensive briefing on world events until about 9:30am, 11am at the latest. A jingoistic world-view and an Amero-centric sense of superiority aren't helped by listening to "World Have Your Say."
Next, I dive right into a rigorous 10-minute calisthenics program I've designed for myself before hitting the shower--I'm in the job market, so I've got to groom for success.
After that, I check my e-mail and see if the iSkills Match has found a job that I'm qualified for. Hmm, no luck (relief masked as disappointment is part of routine). After my morning meet and greet with the cat, I grab the newspaper, shades and flip-flops--I'm Stumptown bound. If I've slept in--I mean listened to "World"--I'll get that quadruple iced Americano to go.
If I can find an outside table, I'll quietly do my crosswords and "people-watch." Eventually, alienation and my overriding sense of purpose will drag me back home for a little lunch. Now, for a while I was watching Perry Mason from noon to 1pm. But this proved to be too restrictive, schedule-wise, so I don't watch TV (except baseball) until the first Simpsons comes on at 6pm.
This is about the time that my schedule gets tight. Housecleaning and other projects usually take up the rest of the pre-ride afternoon. I've got to stay in shape, so the ride is soft-scheduled at 3pm. Often times I'll get a late start and not get on the road until 4pm--like today. When I'm done writing this bullshit, I'll have to kick it up a notch and/or shorten my ride, because now it's a mad rush to get home by 5:45pm, in time to fix dinner and have it ready by 6pm.
The day being finished, I can settle in for a much deserved night of Sanford & Son until mid-August when the cable gets disconnected.
Regrettably, road blocks occasionally appear on my horizon. This is where flex time becomes invaluable. Take today, for instance. It was time for coffee and I was out the door. Just as the door closed, I had that feeling that one gets when he's just realized that his keys are locked in the house. I had misplaced them during calisthenics.
My initial reaction was to panic, or erupt in a tantrum of expletives and foot-stomping. I was, however, able to keep it cool and gain access to the back yard through a sleeping neighbor's house. I'll save my comments on cleanliness for another time. I then proceeded to the basement to get a ladder. Yet again, fate would not smile upon Jefe, for the paranoid douche bag that lives next door had locked the (communal) basement door AGAIN. After some strategic swearing (NOT a tantrum) under said neighbor's window, I spied a long-dormant gas barbecue rusting in the bushes. It was a short drag to my bedroom window. The aged grill held my weight as I slipped, ninja-like, through the window.
Vindicated, I grabbed my keys, returned things to their rightful order, reapplied my flip-flops and headed for a well-earned Americano. Right on time.
You see, Hogan was a musician, and even in the depressed live-music industry of rural Northern California, it was his sole source of income, save the annual prune harvest. Hogan always had a surplus of leisure time.
I never understood his words--until now. I didn't even take him seriously, as I never expected to be in a position to benefit from his sage advice.
I also think of Chuck Bukowski saying "the days run away like wild horses over the hills."
And so they do.
You see, I'm currently unemployed. My skills include nine years as a bike messenger with some "editorial" skills from long ago as a hazy afterthought. The Clift Notes version: virtually unemployable. And so, with a Hogan-esque amount of free time, minimal time-management abilities, an over-active imagination and serious lack of focus, not to mention a stunted maturity level, I found myself mired in an state of nervous lethargy.
Just as the sun rose to exciting and lofty goals and the best of intentions, it would set to loose ends, wasted time and predictable disappointment. Like the Tell-tale Heart, Hogan's words beat like a drum, unrelenting and clear in my mind. The day doesn't last forever, I told myself, and my days as a man of leisure would not last forever, either. If I couldn't find a way to effectively structure my time, how close was I to spending my days with Regis & Kelly, Montel and Springer?
In order to cope with such a dire predicament I've developed a routine. The beauty of a routine is that it forces you to make a kind of non-binding schedule--and keep it. Now, it may sound like an intimidating task, but look at a routine for what it really is--a kind of structured rut.
My routine helps to keep things like looking for work or calling the weekly claims office from getting lost in the shuffle, safely tucked away in an implied to-do list.
My routine goes a little something like this:
First, I get out of bed. Once I've turned on NPR, I settle in for an intensive briefing on world events until about 9:30am, 11am at the latest. A jingoistic world-view and an Amero-centric sense of superiority aren't helped by listening to "World Have Your Say."
Next, I dive right into a rigorous 10-minute calisthenics program I've designed for myself before hitting the shower--I'm in the job market, so I've got to groom for success.
After that, I check my e-mail and see if the iSkills Match has found a job that I'm qualified for. Hmm, no luck (relief masked as disappointment is part of routine). After my morning meet and greet with the cat, I grab the newspaper, shades and flip-flops--I'm Stumptown bound. If I've slept in--I mean listened to "World"--I'll get that quadruple iced Americano to go.
If I can find an outside table, I'll quietly do my crosswords and "people-watch." Eventually, alienation and my overriding sense of purpose will drag me back home for a little lunch. Now, for a while I was watching Perry Mason from noon to 1pm. But this proved to be too restrictive, schedule-wise, so I don't watch TV (except baseball) until the first Simpsons comes on at 6pm.
This is about the time that my schedule gets tight. Housecleaning and other projects usually take up the rest of the pre-ride afternoon. I've got to stay in shape, so the ride is soft-scheduled at 3pm. Often times I'll get a late start and not get on the road until 4pm--like today. When I'm done writing this bullshit, I'll have to kick it up a notch and/or shorten my ride, because now it's a mad rush to get home by 5:45pm, in time to fix dinner and have it ready by 6pm.
The day being finished, I can settle in for a much deserved night of Sanford & Son until mid-August when the cable gets disconnected.
Regrettably, road blocks occasionally appear on my horizon. This is where flex time becomes invaluable. Take today, for instance. It was time for coffee and I was out the door. Just as the door closed, I had that feeling that one gets when he's just realized that his keys are locked in the house. I had misplaced them during calisthenics.
My initial reaction was to panic, or erupt in a tantrum of expletives and foot-stomping. I was, however, able to keep it cool and gain access to the back yard through a sleeping neighbor's house. I'll save my comments on cleanliness for another time. I then proceeded to the basement to get a ladder. Yet again, fate would not smile upon Jefe, for the paranoid douche bag that lives next door had locked the (communal) basement door AGAIN. After some strategic swearing (NOT a tantrum) under said neighbor's window, I spied a long-dormant gas barbecue rusting in the bushes. It was a short drag to my bedroom window. The aged grill held my weight as I slipped, ninja-like, through the window.
Vindicated, I grabbed my keys, returned things to their rightful order, reapplied my flip-flops and headed for a well-earned Americano. Right on time.
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